The stillness. The way the light bounced off the ice. The silence. Above him, in the wheelhouse, Captain Henrik Foss was humming something tuneless while tapping coordinates into the battered GPS console.
Henrik was a decade older, broader in the shoulders, and carried himself with the unshakable confidence of a man who’d survived capsized hulls, snapped winches, and engine fires. His beard was silver now, trimmed like an afterthought, and his jacket looked like it had been handed down from another century.